Somewhere In Latin America: Episode Three
by Clio1792
Summary: Somewhere in Latin America...in a Crowded Restaurant...Percy Blake meets Marguerita Santa Justa in this AU Updated version of Baroness Emma Orczy's beloved classic, "The Scarlet Pimpernel," set in twentieth-century Latin America.


**Somewhere in Latin America...in a crowded restaurant...  
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**This represents a new installment of my AU "modernized" Scarlet Pimpernel tale.**

**Its immediate antecedent is no. 42 of BaronessOrc's brilliantly-conceived series, "Fifty-five Fiction Challenge." **

**This episode is rated T, although I wish to advance the warning, for this chapter, that I have included some references to physical, as well as romantic, attraction. Readers who don't enjoy reading about such subjects may wish to forego reading this piece.**

**I also wish to reaffirm that these fragments originate only from my own imagination. Any resemblance to real personages, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. **

**Likewise, I wish to advance the disclaimer that I do not own Baroness Orczy's wonderful original story, nor its sequels; nor do I do I claim any rights to Jack Kerouac's **_**On the Road **_**(1954); Miguel Unamuno's essay "Solitude," (1924) from which I quote, below; **_**or Por una cabeza,**_** the tango song, first authored by Carlos Gardel and Alfredo La Pera in 1935, to which I also make reference.**

**Finally, I wish to thank Slytherinsal and Woodcrafter for their generous indications about hydraulic engineering; and to extend my sincere thanks to all readers and colleagues on this website—too numerous to name-who have been supportive over the months of hiatus since my last post. Your kindness is deeply appreciated.**  
><strong><br>As always, I am grateful for all comments, negative and positive.  
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It was one of the most popular hot-spots in town.

The kitchen was world-renowned-written up in tourist restaurant guides to the city in every language under the sun.

Diners thronged to the establishment for the succulent sides of beef, lamb, and pork that constituted their country's best-known specialties-always roasted about the edges, tantalizingly rare about the center; aromatically seasoned with flavorful spices that blended perfectly with the faint crisp flavor of charcoal lingering from contact with the restaurant's famous grill.

A few discerning patrons preferred the chef's creative and original bean stews, noted for the way they combined the best of local cuisine with flourishes that reflected the heritage of the thousands of immigrants-Jews and Christians of every possible denomination and background; Spanish, Portuguese, Irish, Welsh, German, Polish, and Italians-who had sailed to the country's shores over the last two centuries.

Nor did the establishment's menu slight the culinary traditions of the country's own indigenous peoples, whose heritage survived in quaint country villages, and archeological sites beyond the country's urban centers.

Tasty dishes melded a banquet of flavors with fresh ingredients harvested from small family farms and sprawling _haciendas_ outside the city.

Potent liquor flowed to complement generous portions, to heighten the good humor of the many patrons who lingered for hours around its tables-officials in the country's government; officers in the national army; captains of industry and business; as well as artists; writers; entertainers and university intellectuals.

They came to relax; to celebrate; to court; to trade gossip with friends, old and new; to argue contentedly and passionately over everything from politics and sports, to art and philosophy.

And then there was the club's orchestra, acclaimed for its quality across the country, and the dance floor, which welcomed couples until the wee hours.

There were no limits placed upon the dancers-if they could still stand, after their lavish meals and abundant drink, they were welcome to stay as long as they liked.

Some glided, earning the attention of admiring onlookers.

Others moved with more enthusiasm than skill.

Many a romance had begun, and ended, on those wooden floorboards.

When Percy and his friends came to this place, they usually came to be see and be seen.

It was best, they had agreed, to drink and eat as ostentatiously as possible; to play the boisterous American fools most of the locals expected them to be.

More than one onlooker, as they had engaged in such displays, had been moved to wonder how such an offensively loud pack of fraternity brothers could possibly share enough brains between them to build a hydroelectric power station across one of the country's largest rivers.

When Percy sang, badly, at the top of his lungs, there was no one who did not know him who would have guessed that this was a man who had designed his first working engine, for fun, at the age of ten.

When Tony pulled a stray waitress into a drunken, impromptu tango, no one would have imagined that the tall Texan could pilot planes as swiftly and skillfully as any seasoned air force flyer.

When Ed pounded the table, calling for meat, then removed his shirt, and leapt atop it-as he had one evening-no one would have guessed that this son of an African-American factory worker had hoisted fellow enlisted men and civilians to safety aboard helicopters under enemy fire many a time without breaking a sweat.

When Phil Glynde and Dick Galveston slumped over in their seats to snore in contrapuntal bellows, no observer would have ever divined that both men were experienced deep-sea divers, adept at finding anything-or anyone-beneath an ocean's waves.

And when Andy harmonized, off-key, to Percy's loud, drunken tunes, onlookers wondered how on earth such a clown could string two words together in a sentence, much less keep down a job as arts editor for _The World Courant_—and how such a weak-minded nitwit could ever have won the heart of Susana Tarrabe, the widely-respected physician to whom Andy had been married for the past two years.

It might have been a night like any other, Percy mused, as he and his friends moved toward their regular table.

And yet Percy could not shake the odd premonition that something had changed, irrevocably, as he had watched Marguerita Santa Justa charm the concert crowd earlier that evening.

As she had alternated lyrical ballads of love and loss with bouncy tunes that set every body in the stadium in rhythmic motion, the world had suddenly seemed filled with a degree of vivid, almost menacing color, heightening Percy's senses with a degree of longing he honestly couldn't remember ever having felt before.

All Percy had been able to do was stare, too fascinated with Marguerita to be embarrassed by how perfectly Andy had called it.

"I knew you'd like her," Andy had smirked.

Andy often smirked when his uncanny ability to read people proved correct.

When Andy smirked, Percy always had to resist a strong urge to punch him in the nose.

"She's alright," Percy had nodded, trying—unsuccessfully—to hide his degree of interest. "You need to stop trying to fix me up, Andy."

Andy's smirk had continued to hover as he grinned at his oldest and closest friend.

It had not, after all, been too huge a stretch to have guessed what would finally catch Percy Blake's attention.

Usually it was the other way around, Andy had remembered.

Women generally fell like trees for Percy, trailing him like rock-star groupies.

Percy had always been unfailingly polite, sometimes mildly curious, seldom interested for anything approximating the long haul.

But if Percy had tended to hang back from serious relationships, Andy knew it was not from any lack of real feeling.

Percy was, after all, the boyhood friend who had watched Andy's back when local antipathy for Andy's parents—both lawyers, dedicated to advancing civil rights in the segregated south- had rendered schoolyard brawls a nearly daily occurrence.

Their friendship had endured, despite the tacit disapproval of Percy's wealthy southern family, through all their years of primary and secondary schooling.

By the time they were both ready for college, Andy had resisted parental expectations that the son would follow the father's footsteps into a law degree at one of the Northeastern Ivy Leagues; while Percy had rejected his family's pressure to enroll at the same established southern university where five generations of Blakes had been educated.

Instead, the two had loaded a second-hand '56 Chevrolet convertible, and headed for the West coast university where they'd met Tony, Ed, Dick, and Phil-and where Andy had found Susana, the love of his life.

"Hey," Andy said now, affecting a wounded look that made the angular lines of his wiry face settle into an expression vaguely reminiscent of a puppy's, "I just want you to find the same quiet contentment I've discovered in married life."

Percy had snorted as he took another drag of his cigarette.

"Misery loves company," he'd retorted.

But the bottom line was that Percy couldn't take his eyes off her throughout the entire performance.

And even after it was over, and they'd all walked toward the car, and driven to the popular establishment for a post-concert supper, the voice, the form, the presence of Marguerita Santa Justa continued to thread through Percy's mind.

And so Percy was at once startled, and yet strangely unsurprised, when the musical voice that still haunted his imagination could be heard to hail them over the chatter that surged through the crowded restaurant.

"Señor Feinberg!"

"Ah, there she is," Andy said to Percy. "Let me introduce you."

For a split second, Percy would later remember, he had hesitated.

Had he only feared the power that a beautiful woman might have to distract him?

Or had he somehow known that nothing in his life would ever be the same?

"Señor Feinberg!" Marguerita had called again

It was barely discernable-something most listeners might have missed-but Percy could have sworn he heard a tinge of desperation in her call.

Was she frightened, he wondered?

Of what?

Or of whom?

As they shouldered past waiters and diners along the aisle to make their way toward the owner of that sensuous voice, Percy had first seen the glow of Marguerita Santa Justa's red hair.

And then, as they had come closer, Marguerita's perfect features came into view.

There was that ripe mouth, those coral lips, that had opened to sing notes of sweet perfection, delighting thousands.

There were those finely arched eyebrows, and eyes of the purest blue; creamy skin and the abundant bounty of reddish-brown curls that magazine and newspaper profiles in every language never failed to mention-once their authors had finished rhapsodizing about Marguerita Santa Justa's voice, her captivating presence, her skill as a dancer.

She had changed, Percy noted, from the multicolored fantasy of sequins and lace she had worn on stage to a simpler dress of red and black. The bodice, tied in a halter top about her neck, clung to her figure, while her hair fell loose about her shoulders.

Marguerita Santa Justa's arms were slim, and yet somehow subtly muscular; so, too, were her shapely legs, which could be seen stretching below her dress, her feet set off in black, patent-leather heeled pumps.

Her's was a dancer's body; slender but strong, delicate, but somehow, disciplined, and self-contained.

And yet, as they neared the table where she sat, he again could have sworn that he saw the same fear in her eyes, hidden but unmistakable, that he'd heard in her voice.

It was then that Percy Blake noted that Marguerita Santa Justa was not alone.

To one side of her, close at the table where they sat, was Marguerita's brother and manager, Armando Santa Justa.

On the other, one hand possessively resting upon the back of Marguerita's chair, sat the local chief of police, and close confidante of many of the powerful generals who dominated the country's government, Colonel Luis de Contreras.

Contreras's sharp eyes took in the six men walking toward them. A smile of glitteringly white teeth, partially hidden by his elegant mustache, curled his mouth.

It occurred to Percy that Contreras looked just the tiniest bit like a coiled cobra, ready to strike.

Or maybe it was just the stories he'd heard of how Contreras conducted interrogations.

"Señor Feinburg!" Marguerita said again, smiling, this time, with a genuine warmth. "What extraordinary good fortune to run into you this evening!"

Marguerita spoke in English, her lyrical voice inflected by the musical accents of her native tongue.

Andy was all gentlemanly old world manners, the _persona_ he'd learned to cultivate at social gatherings in his wife's country, where European formality was still preferred to the laid-back style favored to the north, in California.

"Señorita Santa Justa, may I present my friends?" Andy began.

"Anthony Hurst," Andy began, gesturing to the tall Texan who stood at his side.

"_Encantado," _Marguerita said, extending her hand.

Marguerita's delicate fingers were lost in Tony's beefy hands, as, grinning from ear to ear, he leaned forward to pump Marguerita's arm enthusiastically. "That's quite an impressive set of pipes you've got, little lady!" Tony bellowed in the hearty accents of his home state. "We really enjoyed your songs!"

"Why thank you, Señor Hurst," Marguerita replied, smiling, somewhat condescendingly, at Tony's exuberance.

"Tony," Tony corrected her. "Please call me Tony-everyone does."

Percy noticed, with the beginning of some concern, that Contreras seemed to be studying Tony rather intently.

"Edward Hastings..." Andy continued.

"Ma'am," Ed said, taking up the hand Marguerita extended to him to greet her with the formality he'd learned as an Air Force pilot.

_"Encantado, _Señor Hastings_" _Marguerita nodded, matching Ed's reserve.

Percy noticed that Contreras's eyes now flickered over Ed's figure as he pressed Marguerita's hand.

Andy seemed oblivious to Contreras as he proceeded with his introductions.

"Philip Glynde," Andy went on, gesturing to Ed's right.

_"Encantado, _Señor Glynde," Marguerita said, extending her hand for the third time.

"Please," Phil interposed, sparing Andy a sardonic glance, "call me Phil. The only person who still calls me Philip is my Irish grandmother."

"Ah," Marguerita said conversationally, "you are Irish, then, Señor Glynde..._lo siento, perdoname por favor, _Phil? We have many Irish here, in my country, as well.."

"Well, half Irish, half Italian," Phil explained with a smile. "I'm from Boston."

"Ah, I see," Marguerita replied. "I have sung in Boston...it is...two years ago," she went on, her English revealing a few grammatical errors that somehow served only to make her seem oddly vulnerable, and even more irresistible. "It is a lovely town, as I recall!"

"Richard Galveston," Andy continued with his introductions.

_"Encantado_, Señor Galveston," Marguerita said, looking up at Dick. "And do you, Señor, also have a preference concerning how you are addressed?"

"It's Dick," Dick replied, grinning at Marguerita's query.

"And are you, also, from Boston?"

"Oregon, actually," Dick replied. "I grew up outside of a town called Portland."

"Ah," Marguerita replied, as her shoulders moved with a graceful shrug of polite apology. "I am afraid this is a city I have not visited."

Throughout these pleasantries, Percy had continued to hang back, to allow Andy to introduce the others. He had noted the sinuous turn of Marguerita's hands as she gestured, the music of her voice, the way the lights of the restaurant seemed to sparkle their reflection in the tendrils of her hair.

She was even more dazzling in person than she was on stage.

And he still couldn't shake the gut feeling that she was nervous about something...or someone.

He wondered if it might be Contreras, whose eyes continued to be fixed, he noted, on Tony, and Ed.

Any coherent thought scattered, however, as Marguerita Santa Justa turned her blue eyes to look directly into Percy's.

It was then he realized, with a jolt, that she was every bit as aware of him as he had become of her.

"And who is this?" Marguerita inquired of Andy, as her gaze held Percy's.

"Percy Blake," Percy stepped forward to speak his own name, before Andy could re-enact the theatre of introduction.

He held out his hand just assertively enough so that Contreras's eyebrow lifted slightly.

He wanted to rebuke himself for such an obvious slip, except that his usual desire to come across as an idiot warred, in this single moment, with an overarching determination to hide how attracted he already was to Marguerita Santa Justa.

Marguerita seemed to hear the challenge in his voice, and met it, he noted, without hesitation.

_"Encantado, _Señor Blake," she said, rising from her seat to put her hand in his.

For one split second, Percy seemed drawn to another time and place, as if there were an expectation that he would raise her hand to his lips, like some character in a costume drama.

But then Marguerita Santa Justa shook his hand as firmly as if they'd met as business associates.

Except that, if they'd met in a business setting, he would not have noticed the delicacy of her fingers, which seemed unexpectedly, deliciously, small in his own.

And except for the spark of electricity that seemed to run like a current between them, for the lingering moments when her hand slipped into his.

Whatever flare of awareness there had been, Percy noted, Marguerita Santa Justa had felt it, just as he did. For an instant, he'd seen her eyes widen, before her lashes had fluttered into a lowered gaze, and she'd retaken her seat.

"Your English is excellent, Señorita Santa Justa," Percy remarked conversationally in a southern drawl that he usually exaggerated when speaking in public.

And now he smiled, innocently, affably, looking to recover any ground they might have lost before Contreras, who was, he noted, watching him and Marguerita with a disquieting degree of attention.

"I'm impressed!" Percy went on, in the same guileless tone. "We've been here nearly a year now, and I'm still having trouble with your language!"

This was, of course, a complete lie.

Percy's Spanish-like Andy's, and every other member of their fraternity's-was perfect.

The only Spanish Percy couldn't understand were a few obscure Mexican curses that Tony had learned to hurl fluently during his Texas boyhood.

Phil could also speak Italian, the language of his mother's family; and Ed, over the years, had managed to pick up Vietnamese, Japanese, and a smattering of Mandarin.

Percy was rewarded for his deliberate deception by the tiny sneer of condescension he saw curl across Contreras's lip.

He saw Marguerita's eyes shift briefly toward the Colonel, and then she smiled brightly, perhaps a bit too brightly, at Percy.

"You are most kind, Señor Blake," she replied. "But I am afraid I have learned English only at our music conservatory here at home." Her smile widened with a touch of self-deprecating humor that was all the more delightful for its unexpectedness. "I am so grateful when I am given an opportunity to practice speaking!"

There was a moment of slightly awkward silence, and then Marguerita spoke again, in the same elegant accent that betrayed the slightest hint of tension.

"And may I, in turn, present my brother and manager, Armando Santa Justa?"

Armando rose slowly, and, it seemed, somewhat unwillingly, from his seat at Marguerita's right, and gave the assembly of men a tight smile that did not quite reach his eyes.

"_Encantado,"_ Armando said, as he shook hands with each of them, in turn, in a manner at once efficient and surly.

"And Colonel Luis de Contreras, our city's chief of police?" Marguerita gestured toward the elegant man who sat to her left, poised underneath the Yvonne da Costa canvas that decorated the wall above their table, her movements at once supple and strangely tense.

"Colonel Contreras," Marguerita continued in the same bright, overly conversational tone she'd used to introduce her brother, "this is Andrew Feinburg, the journalist who interviewed me for that profile in _The World Courant_ that appeared last month." Marguerita smiled up at Andrew once again. "I can't thank you enough for such a flattering portrait," she purred in a Spanish accent that made her English sound as musical as the songs she sang for a living. "The publicist my brother hired a year ago was not nearly as kind!"

"I would hardly go that far, sister," Armando Santa Justa muttered, but then seemed to catch himself to grace Andy with a grudging smile, when Marguerita raised a censorious eyebrow in his direction. "It was, indeed, a very well-done article," he amended. "We are most grateful to you, Señor Feinburg."

Unlike Marguerita or her brother, Contreras remained seated.

Sparing barely a nod for the men he'd been covertly studying, Contreras now trained the full measure of his attention upon Andy.

"You are a journalist, then," Contreras spoke now, for the first time.

The word _journalist, _Andy noted,was pronounced carefully, almost as if it were an insult.

"Yes, Colonel." Andy spoke genially, although his open manner masked a wariness he had made some effort to hide over the past few minutes.

"Perhaps," Contreras continued, in a voice at once smooth as brandy, but tinged with a menacing edge, "you know the editor of our local newspaper, _La Voz Popular_, Martin Tarebbe?"

The innocent grin Andy continued to wear camouflaged distinct alarm as he debated his response.

Contreras, his sources had assured him, never asked a question unless he already knew the answer.

Contreras's interest in his profession-and his family- was not a good sign.

It was nonetheless best, Andy decided after a split second's hesitation, to tell the truth and keep the man's evident suspicions as far at bay as could be managed.

"Oh, I know Martin rather well," Andy replied, maintaining his aspect of unsuspecting candor. "He's my father-in-law."

"Ah!" Contreras said, with a smile that lifted his lips to reveal white, shining teeth, "then it is you who are married to the esteemed Director of our Public Clinic."

"How is dearest Susana?" Marguerita broke in, flashing a look of worry in the Colonel's direction.

Now Andy's smile deepened into a genuine grin of appreciation, as he contemplated his wife, who had attended grammar and secondary school with Marguerita Santa Justa.

Despite the long separations their respective careers had imposed upon the two women as they'd matured, Andy knew that Susana still considered the celebrated entertainer one of her oldest and dearest friends.

"Well...she's working!" Andy laughed helplessly.

"As usual!" Marguerita responded, laughing back.

This was, after all, a common occurrence.

Eighteen hour days were typical for Dr. Susana Tarebbe Feinburg, who seldom turned a patient away.

"She had hoped to join us tonight," Andy continued, "but one of the women she cares for at the clinic went into labor unexpectedly, so she's at the hospital, delivering a baby."

"Dearest Susana," Marguerita pouted, as she shared a look of tender exasperation with her best friend's husband. "She is _always _with a patient! She never stops to rest!"

Dr. Susana Tarebbe Feinburg, Andy's wife, had studied biology and then medicine at the same California university where Andy had majored in English, and Percy, Tony, Ed, and Dick had studied engineering.

She and Andy had met one October morning, in the library, during freshman year.

Just one look into Susana Tarebbe's serious brown eyes, Percy had teased, and Andy had been a goner.

They had become inseparable, and married a few years later.

Almost from the beginning, Susana had been determined to bring the healing arts she'd mastered in the United States back to her own country.

As soon as her medical training was complete, she had returned home, Andy in tow, to establish a medical clinic in the poorest section of the city where she'd been raised.

Susana's tireless work with the less fortunate had earned her national respect as well as notice abroad.

Susana's professional reputation had, meanwhile, won her a secondary following among more affluent patients from the better parts of town, who made their way to her clinic, notwithstanding its unfashionable address, simply because Susana's skills as a physician were widely acknowledged to be without parallel.

"I was so dreadfully sorry to have missed your wedding, Señor Feinburg," Marguerita continued with another apologetic laugh. "But my brother is such a slave-driver!"

"You were booked for ten nights in Madrid, and it was standing room only for every performance," Armando retorted.

Marguerita Santa Justa smiled at Andrew again and rolled her eyes, diffusing some of the vehemence of her brother's response.

This was, after all, an old argument-and only one of the many she had lost-with her brother.

"You see what I mean!" she smiled again, accenting her words with another shrug that rippled the flawless exposed skin of her shoulders. And now her tone held a tiny edge. "To my brother, I am _una vaca premiada_-how would you gentlemen say it in English? 'a prize cow?'"

"Yes! That is it!" Marguerita laughed now, gaining confidence to tease her brother in public. "I furnish milk and win blue ribbons!"

Tony and Dick, who knew farm life well enough from their childhoods to grasp the analogy completely, burst out laughing.

Marguerita's joke dispelled some of the tension as even Contreras felt obliged to offer a faint smile.

And then Marguerita took of them in, as she spread her hands in a gesture of invitation and welcome: "Won't you gentlemen join us? I realize this is a small table, but if you ask the proprietor to bring another and some extra chairs..."

Percy and Andy exchanged glances before turning to Tony, Phil, Ed and Dick.

Percy replied for all of them, buying time: "No need for all that trouble, Señorita Santa Justa-we'll just find the maitre d' and ask him to take care of it."

And with that stratagem arranged, Percy finally had the luxury of turning on his heel to share impressions with his friends.

"That man is watching us like a hawk watches a mouse," Tony murmured as they walked away from the table.

"He wasn't surprised to meet any of us," Percy agreed, quietly. "Andy-is there any one among your contacts who might be talking to him?"

Smirk long gone, Andy's brows were now furrowed with worry, as he mentally reviewed the roster of individuals who had shared information with him over the last six months. A few-and one in particular-were completely sure; but there were one or two others who might not be...

"I'm sorry for this, Percy," Andy offered, at last, in a low tone. "I wanted you to meet Marguerita-to be honest, Anna and I have been trying to set this up for months-and I thought Armando might insist on coming along...but I had no idea Contreras would be here!"

Percy gave his friend a level look.

"How the hell does she know him, anyway?" he queried, in a low voice.

"That was gonna be my next question," Ed put in.

"I have no idea," Andy responded, his voice edged with frustration, and genuine anxiety. Why was Contreras watching them? What had he missed?

Had what he had assumed was a fairly harmless matchmaking scheme put their organization-and his precious wife-in any real danger?

Andy continued to struggle with these apprehensions as the group paused, finally, to gather about their regular table. "Should we join them, Percy, or sit by ourselves?" Andy asked.

Percy had to stop himself from turning back to look at Marguerita.

Part of him had hated to walk away from her, even for an instant.

And yet it was important to be careful, if Contreras suspected them...

"We'd better sit with them," Percy decided at last, adding, with a sly smile. "You know what they say...keep your friends close..."

"And your enemies closer," Ed finished for him. "You sure this isn't just because you want to check out that singer?"

Percy gave his old buddy a wry grin.

"No," he admitted.

Andy and Phil exchanged glances, and Tony let out a peal of hearty laughter.

"Well, gentlemen," boomed the Texan, as he clapped his hand on Percy's back, "it appears we won't be able to get quite as drunk as we usually do tonight!"

It took them only a few more minutes to locate the maitre d' and ask that the table they surrounded be moved to add to the one across the floor, where Marguerita and Armando Santa Justa continued to sit with the city's Chief of Police.

The maitre d' let out a wary sigh at their request, and might have demurred at obliging the Americans who so often insisted upon making spectacles of themselves by the close of any evening-had it not been for the thick wad of bills Percy slipped discretely into the man's hand-the favored means they'd adopted to settle any trouble they ever caused.

The money had its usual, felicitous, effect.

And so, soon, waiters, waitresses, and busboys were moving smoothly about them, depositing extra chairs around the table at which Marguerita Santa Justa was flanked by her brother and the Colonel; responding to Andy's low order for another bottle of red wine and a large board of _picada_-meats and cheeses that could tease their palates as they contemplated the question of whether to order anything heavier-as extra places were laid, and wine glasses and silverware set before each of them.

Amidst the ballet of restaurant service, Percy found himself settling into a chair directly across from Marguerita Santa Justa. As Percy leaned forward to light another cigarette, Tony, Ed, Phil and Dick enthusiastically helped themselves to tart olives, and flavorful slices of cheese and sausage.

Andy, ever the gentleman, poured and tipped off everyone's wine.

And then Percy found he was looking up into Marguerita Santa Justa's eyes, and the table seemed to be composed of only the two of them, as she smiled hesitantly, and Percy struggled not to drown in those pools of compelling sapphire.

"So, Señor Blake….Gentlemen…" Marguerita added, moving her eyes about the table to include them all in her renewed smile of welcome, "may I ask how it is that you came to our country?"

"Well, now, Señorita Santa Justa," Tony began in a hearty tone...

Marguerita's smile broadened, "_Rita," _she corrected. "I hope you will call me Rita, if I am permitted to call you Tony."

From his seat next to her, Percy noticed Armando's face take on a subtle scowl.

"Well, that's right generous of you, Rita!" Tony replied.

Tony continued to grin back at Marguerita without answering, until she pressed the question, once again.

"What is it that you gentlemen _do?_"

Ed and Dick exchanged a discrete glance.

She might be the prettiest girl any of them had ever seen, but she sure did ask a lot of questions.

Percy took a drag of his cigarette, and a sip of his wine before setting it down carefully, to look at Marguerita thoughtfully.

Was she fishing for information for Contreras?

They couldn't rule this out.

Clearly, Contreras knew something-they just didn't know how much, and for once, Andy's contacts had left them short.

On the other hand, perhaps a line or two of what was public knowledge would enable them to figure out whatever it was Contreras _did_ know.

So Percy took the plunge, trying-not entirely successfully-to avoid the distraction of Marguerita's looks.

"Well, Señorita" Percy began, in the slow southern drawl that he had observed invariably made locals roll their eyes, "My buddies and I came down to your little corner of the world to build a dam."

Marguerita looked confused for a moment. "Forgive me? This is not a word I know?"

Armando flashed an irritated look at Percy and the others, then turned to his sister. "_Represa_," he explained shortly, giving her the translation in his native language.

Armando Santa Justa then eyed Percy and Tony with something that looked like hostile defiance. "Which of our local waterways are you and your friends destroying, Señor?"

It was fascinating, Percy noted, to watch the play of emotions across Marguerita Santa Justa's face.

There was the darting look of quick apology that she had sent in his direction; layered over, it had seemed to him, with embarrassment and irritation at her brother's words...but the fear he'd noted before was there as well, as he saw her eyes sweep furtively to her right, over Contreras.

Contreras only smiled, although it was not, somehow, a smile of amusement.

And then Contreras's eyes shifted to Ed, and there was a flash of white teeth.

"It is the P- River is it not, Señor Hastings?"

Before Ed could say anything, Percy covered his dismay with a laugh of delighted surprise, as if Contreras had made a clever joke,

"Man, Señor ContrEEras, you're _good_!" Percy exclaimed, stabbing the air with an index finger to indicate Contreras while he made sure to lengthen the vowels in the Colonel's name so as to mispronounce it. "How'd you know that?" he added, with a genial laugh.

Contreras settled comfortably back in his chair. He did not bother to correct Percy's mispronunciation. The man, Contreras decided, was clearly a fool. "I make it my business to know who is visiting our country, Señor Blake."

Marguerita's look of worry had not left her face. Nor had Armando ceased to glare at them.

Tony's booming voice now broke the tension: "Well, now, Señor Contreras, Señor Santa Justa " he said with a wide smile that included both of them, "you should come up to our dam site, some time, and have a look!"

Tony grinned at Armando, "Why you could make sure we're not digging up anybody's garden, Señor, or beatin' up on any little 'ole ladies!"

"You, too, Rita," Tony barreled on, "why, you might enjoy the view, if you haven't seen it-we're just lovin' your beautiful country! Mountains higher than I've ever seen back in Texas!"

Marguerita smiled back at Tony. It lit up her face. "I'd like that, Tony."

It was completely absurd to be jealous, Percy thought.

Any thought of jealousy-indeed, practically any thought at all-was wiped from his consciousness as that dazzling smile was turned back on him.

"What is the purpose of this dam you are building, Señor Blake?"

"Purpose?" Percy blinked, and did his best to look stupid.

"Um..." he drew it out as long as he could before furnishing a one-word answer:

"Power."

"Power?" Marguerita's Spanish accent nearly made the query a caress as a slight frown of inquiry furrowed between the perfect arches of her brow.

Percy squinted, and tried to concentrate. "Um….Hydroelectric power, Señorita," he explained.

"I am so sorry," and now Marguerita smiled again, apologetically. "This is something I do not understand."

Ed Hastings decided to take up the thread now, as Contreras continued to follow their exchange with an unsettling degree of concentration.

"It's like this, Ma'am," Ed began. "Water can't be compressed; it's gotta go somewhere."

It was Tony's turn to put in a word. "So, when we build a barrier across a river-that is, a dam- that prevents the water from flowing in the direction nature intended"-and here Tony spared another glance for Armando Santa Justa-"the water flows more powerfully."

Marguerita's look of bemusement had not left her face.

"But why?" she asked.

Percy struggled to concentrate, and come up with an explanation that would make sense to a layman.

Or in this case, a lay woman…

He abandoned that line of thinking and returned to the subject.

"Because when the water's released, we send it through a narrow channel. Water's _heavy_, Rita."

Percy paused and took another drag of his cigarette.

"The weight of the water the dam is holding creates the power as the dam channels it, and pushes it forward."

This was, of course, wild over simplification. But it was more or less accurate.

"Harness the power," Phil added, taking up from where Percy had left off, "and you can create enough electricity for a village that didn't have any..."

"Or sometimes a whole city," Dick put in, giving Armando his own side glance.

"So we don't hurt anybody," Tony, finished, in a soothing voice that refuted Armando's earlier accusation. "We're here to help y'all out!"

"I see," Marguerita nodded, with a gentle smile for Percy and his friends.

Percy watched as Marguerita next aimed a look of subtle disdain at her brother.

And then those mesmerizing eyes were turned once again toward him, as she followed their explanation with another puzzled look.

"And so you build this dam yourselves?"

Percy had to laugh, but he overdid it deliberately, and the rest of the men took their cue from him.

Contreras, Percy noted, allowed another smile to ghost about his own mouth, while Armando joined in, apparently ready to laugh at his sister.

Marguerita looked a bit offended, as she probably should have been, Percy decided, privately.

It was, after all, a legitimate question, and there _were_ a number of things they were capable of doing on their own, even if they had tried to make sure _those_ skills went unadvertised.

"We don't build them singlehandedly, Rita," Percy explained when the laughter died down.

His voice held a tinge of apology. "We design them, and then employ men from your country to help us do the building."

Percy noted Contreras's eyes snap to swift attention at those last words.

_Aw, hell. _

Percy struggled to remain outwardly calm.

The local men—and sometimes, women—hired by Blake Enterprises were often political prisoners they had rescued, or individuals Andy's contacts had indicated would soon be under arrest.

A few days disguised as dam workers, and then it was up and out, and on to America.

Evidently, this was sort of the information Contreras was seeking.

_Gotta change the subject. Right now. _

Ten minutes ago, Percy thought wryly to himself, would have been even better.

Marguerita smiled again, in apparent acceptance of Percy's apology, as she offered another arch query:

"Where did you gentlemen learn to tame rivers and conjure electricity from water sprites?"

And now they all laughed together, the men as much from relief as from amusement.

Percy's eyes were almost tender as they appreciated her.

"In San Francisco," he replied, uttering his answer with a gallant smile that earned another scowl from Armando Santa Justa.

"Ah!" Marguerita exclaimed. "I have visited San Francisco-we have done two...no, was it three? concerts in San Francisco?" She turned to Armando and added a rephrasing of the inquiry in Spanish, for her brother.

_"Tres_," Armando replied shortly in Spanish, deliberately excluding Percy and the others.

He added another sentence in their native language, that it had been while in San Francisco for the second concert that Marguerita had met Susana for lunch while she was still a student.

"Yes, of course! Now I remember!" Marguerita responded.

She turned back to them and smiled again, "There was such..._energy_ in San Francisco, I recall...so many young people..."

"San Francisco in the 60s was a carnival," Percy responded.

"Whatever do you mean by that?" Marguerita asked.

Percy looked reflective, wondering if he might be taking a risk by speaking out of character...although anything, surely, was better than discussing the details of their staffing arrangements for Blake Enterprises, which constituted the second stop on their...what should he call it? "Underground railroad?'

And the lure of talking to this woman seemed to be a vortex, an undertow, that he couldn't quite resist...

Percy's realization that he was so attracted to Marguerita Santa Justa that he barely cared what risks he took was surely the most terrifying apprehension of all.

"I don't know whether you know one of our American authors, Rita?," Percy finally began to answer. "Jack Kerouac?"

Marguerita's elegant eyebrows knit as she reflected. "It is a name I have heard." she began. "I seem to recall a book…." Her voice trailed off as she leaned slightly toward him in her seat, her brow still furrowed with concentration. "I believe it is called _On the Road_?"

When Percy grinned an assent, Marguerita's answering smile brimmed with flirtatious mischief.

"This is a _man's_ book, yes?" she inquired, in a tone of gentle mockery.

"Filled with reminiscences of willing women—if memory serves-and the American highway?"

Percy launched into an exaggerated laugh, hating the way he was obliged to play the fool when her words were teasing him with their heady mixture of erudition and challenge.

Not for the first time that evening, he found himself wishing they were alone, at some quiet corner table, where they could talk more freely, instead of being stuck in this group setting where they could be little more than players before an audience.

"Can't say you're wrong on that score, Rita," Percy finally admitted. "But_ On the Road_ has one line in it where Kerouac talks about "the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time...the ones who burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars..." (Jack Kerouac, On the Road (1957), Part I, Chapter I).

Marguerite's eyes seemed to rivet into Percy's as he quoted the lines.

They were staring at each other as his voice trailed off.

What in heaven's name was happening to them?

Percy's eyes dropped as he took another sip—or it might have been a gulp—of his wine, and continued.

"That," Percy went on, "was San Francisco in '68, when Andy and I first got there. Everyone was, as you say, full of energy; full of passion for high causes; full of soaring rhetoric."

Percy took another draw of his cigarette.

"But a great deal of it was talk, rather than action."

Out of the corner of his eye, Percy saw Ed give a subtle, satisfied, nod.

Marguerita sat back in her chair, keeping her eyes intently focused upon Percy. "I think I see what you mean," she said. "It is like the activists in our country."

Marguerita's eyes, Percy noticed, shifted to her brother as she said these words, and the edge in her voice was discernable.

"They, too, are often inclined to great heights of eloquence not always matched by...praiseworthy…substance."

Armando's scowl, Percy noted, deepened to a glower.

"And, I myself, have come to distrust the energy one feels among such people," Marguerita continued.

"It is like the crowds who attend my concerts," Marguerita gave an affectionate laugh, as she contemplated her throng of fans.

"I can shout, 'Let's sing together!' or 'Clap with me!', and everyone in the stadium, or the hall, will do exactly as I tell them…but I often wonder," Marguerite mused, "are they _thinking_? Or are they just _responding_, like the involuntary movements of a body to music?"

Marguerita frowned, thoughtfully.

Percy noticed that, as with everything else, Marguerita made the expression beautiful.

"If I asked them to jump off a cliff," she finished, "Would they respond in the same way in those moments?"

Marguerita's smile was sad, now, with a tinge of apology for the serious direction of her rumination. "I, too, bring to mind the words of an author, although one I doubt you know, Señor Blake-one of our Spanish writers; his name is Miguel de Unamuno?" He has written plays, and essays, and works of philosophy. There is a quotation I like in one of his essays…."

Marguerita hesitated a moment.

"I am afraid I only know it in Spanish," Marguerita continued. "...I am uncertain I can provide a translation...in Spanish it is "_Sólo la soledad derrite es a espesa capa de pudor que nos aísla a los unos de los otros; sólo en la soledad nos encontramos; y al encontrarnos, encontramos en nosotros a todos nuestros hermanos en soledad.."_ (Miguel de Unamuno, "Solitude," 1924)

Percy was mesmerized, but he hadn't completely lost his mind.

He made his face a deliberate blank.

"What does it mean?" he asked finally, endeavoring to make the question sound as stupid as possible.

Marguerita's perfect brows knitted once more in concentration.

It was an expression he was beginning to recognize, and adore.

"Let me see," Marguerita began. "...Unamuno is saying that we find ourselves only when we are alone..._soledad_ in Spanish, it is "solitude…and this is the name of the essay…"

"So, when we are alone, we recognize others, who are also alone; our brothers, so to speak, in solitude."

"Unamuno goes on," Marguerita continued, "to say that everything that is strongest and best in us we learn only in solitude.."

"That it is when we are alone," she finished, "that we come the closest to truly understanding the suffering of others—of becoming…"

Marguerita's voice trailed off for a few moments, as her eyes took on a look of melancholy that seemed out of keeping with the light mood of the restaurant about them.

"…moral human beings…" she finished.

And now Marguerita apparently shook free of the brooding weight of her words, sounding a low, rueful laugh that seemed to caress his senses with tempting notes of music. "Perhaps," Marguerita confessed, "I have enjoyed Unamuno because my solitude is such a precious respite from being surrounded by hundreds of people...and yet I am always traveling from one concert to another in solitude….or standing alone on stage..."

A pensive look returned to Marguerita's deep blue eyes as she paused.

"And it has, perhaps," Marguerita went on, "made me heedful of Unamuno's warning against being swept away too easily by the fervor of a crowd..."

For another moment Marguerita fell silent...and then she sighed, as she concluded:

"Sometimes," Marguerita said, "it is best not to act with a crowd, but to wait until it has dispersed...and then… to reflect."

The table had gone silent as Marguerita spoke.

Somewhere, deep in his chest, Percy's heart lay, dazzled and defeated.

_Oh man, Andy, what have you gotten me into?_

In all his life, in all his travels, in all his adventures, there had never been such a woman.

Why hadn't Andy introduced them sooner?

From his vantage point across the table, Andy felt some small measure of satisfaction return as he watched his best buddy stare longingly at his wife's oldest friend.

_Told you so!_

Andy caught Tony's eye, and they exchanged a furtive grin that Dick, Ed, and Phil quietly shared.

Watching Percy Blake, Mr. Cool, their ordinarily unflappable leader, finally fall-hook, line, and sinker-for a girl was a spectacle almost worth the evening's hazards.

Marguerita's words, had, meanwhile, provoked her brother to trembling rage.

"You seem to be extremely dismissive of collective action, _querida hermana, _" Armando finally said, his teeth clenched.

For what could not have been more than an instant, Percy saw Marguerita's deep blue eyes flash a spark of fire as she shot a sideline glare at her brother.

"Perhaps," Marguerita replied tartly, "it is because I have seen otherwise intelligent people led like sheep into stupidity when they gather in groups," she retorted.

"You should take care not to criticize what you do not understand," Armando replied, his voice now low, and vaguely threatening.

"I understand everything, Armando. I understand that you are a romantic fool!" Marguerita fired back.

Within seconds, the atmosphere around the table had gone from philosophical, to romantic, to downright uncomfortable-although Percy and the others could hardly be sorry that this apparent spat between siblings had diverted Marguerita's questions, and the Colonel's scrutiny.

Contreras, who had said nothing during the last exchange, seemed unsurprised by the sharp words between Marguerita and her brother.

And yet Percy noted, with some resentment, the way the Colonel's hand had slowly crept around the back of her chair, throughout.

Percy watched Marguerita look down a moment, and then raise her head to take in the men around her: her brother and Contreras; Phil and Ed; Tony and Dick.

Her lips curved into a brief, warm, smile as her gaze met Andy's; but then Marguerita turned back to rest her eyes, once more, in a direct gaze at Percy.

Her look was bold now; reckless, and, somehow, seductive.

He watched with fascination, as Marguerita squared her shoulders with a fluid motion, elevating her chin in what might have been a subtle gesture of defiance.

The movement shifted her abundance of reddish-brown curls away from her face, revealing the beauty of an arched eyebrow as she posed a question that seemed at once to be an invitation, and a challenge:

"Can you dance a tango, Señor Blake?"

Contreras seemed to start and Percy noticed the hand he'd laid behind the arm of Marguerita's chair tighten perceptively.

"The tango," Contreras sneered, "is a subversive dance. It is not danced anymore."

"Nonsense!" Marguerita retorted, with a show of spirit toward the Colonel they hadn't yet seen over the course of the evening. "It is our _traditional _dance!" She smiled, now, gaining confidence, it seemed, as she countered the police chief in argument. "The tango is a dance of..." and now she paused, looking speculatively at Percy, "grace..."

"And skill," Marguerita added, as she held Percy's eyes.

"You should not be making a spectacle of yourself," Armando Santa Justa now scolded.

Marguerita gave a short, mirthless laugh.

"Really, Armando?" Marguerita questioned her brother sharply. "Haven't I spent the first part of our evening doing precisely that?"

"And," Marguerita finished coldly, "I should say that it has paid for tonight's supper...and tomorrow's breakfast."

Percy saw Ed and Tony exchange glances-half amused, half alarmed-out of the corner of his eye as he swallowed hard.

The tension in the air was palpable.

The risks to accepting Marguerita's invitation were clear.

But hadn't the the whole evening been a risk?

And there was an element of recklessness rising in Percy's heart that seemed to match the dare he saw reflected in Marguerita's eyes.

She was as attracted to him, he thought, as he was to her.

The knowledge was heady, and completely irresistible.

He reverted to playing the fool. "Well," Percy drawled, "I can't say as I'm any good at it, Señorita Santa Justa...but if you're willin' to tolerate me steppin' on your toes..."

Marguerita stretched to her feet like a cat and and smiled as she extended her hand. "I can explain the steps to you, Señor Blake," she replied, smiling. "I am sure we will not fall over each other."

Percy grinned inwardly as he rose from his seat to take her hand.

He wasn't sure they hadn't fallen already.

As they reached the parkayed dance area, Marguerita released Percy's hand, and walked determinedly up to the orchestra conductor.

Percy watched Marguerita bestow the same winning smile upon the conductor that she'd trained upon him and the others as she entreated the musicians to play Gardel and La Pera's _Por una cabeza _(1935).

The conductor looked vaguely startled, and glanced, as if seeking permission, toward Contreras.

For a moment, Percy wondered if Contreras might shake his head; but then, to his surprise, Contreras offered a barely perceptible nod.

And then, as the conductor turned to his players, Marguerita retraced her steps toward Percy, her movements now, somehow, more hesitant.

Had she risen to dance with him only to goad her brother? Or Contreras?

His thoughts scattered as they had before when Marguerita turned to face him.

Oddly, Marguerita offered a smile that was no longer bold, but shy, almost apologetic.

"The tango is not an easy dance," Marguerita began, taking a step toward him, as he heard the music begin "but it is not unlearnable..."

Her brow furrowed again for a moment, as she sought inspiration.

Marguerita brought her hands together and then spread them at her sides. "...Let me see...since you and your friends have explained that you conjure energy from the rivers," she continued, her lips curving once more with an irresistible expression of amused mischief "perhaps you will understand if I explain that the tango is a dance of _power_? .."

Marguerita's words were uttered with a smile, as if inviting Percy to share in some private joke.

"Except," she went on, "that it is a sort of _contest_, in which two dancers contend, to see who can figure most impressively…"

Percy grinned back at Marguerita, but mustered his best drawl for a reply. "A contest, huh, Señorita?" he inquired.

"How do you win?"

And now Marguerita's answering smile broadened, her posture of arch flirtation set aside as her eyes gleamed with genuine good humor.

"I believe the aim is to exhaust one's partner," she confided, leaning forward in a posture of exaggerated conspiracy.

Percy's laugh at that was loud enough to draw notice from surrounding dancers who began to move aside, as more and more of them gradually realized that it was the singer Marguerita Santa Justa who had joined them on the dance floor.

With eyes only for Percy, however, Marguerita continued her tutorial.

"There are three steps forward for the man..."

Marguerita demonstrated, stepping back on elegant heels while her right hand rose to encourage Percy forward.

"...and three steps back for the woman..."

What could Percy do but follow?

"...And then one step to the right..."

"And then," Marguerita finished, "the couple must pivot, and they may...improvise..."

Percy raised an eyebrow for a fresh inquiry. "Improvise, Señorita?"

"Well, that is to say...they can move their feet...or spin...or dip..." Marguerita explained, her hands moving elegantly to accent her words. "The couple can move as they wish, as long as they eventually return to take three more steps..."

Percy grinned, and decided it was time-at least for this night, this moment, this woman-to lower the mask a bit.

Slowly his right hand reached out to touch the small of Marguerita's back, while his left hand took up her delicate hand in his.

And then, with a swiftness that startled them both, he pulled her close up against him, and smiled, as he looked down at her.

"Now that I think of it, Señorita," Percy admitted with a drawl, "I'm pretty sure I've danced a tango before."

The orchestra came to its first flourish, and Percy felt Marguerita's back brace forward, as if burned by his the feel of his hand.

Later, much later, neither Marguerita nor Percy would not be able to remember all the intricate dance steps they'd executed.

What each of them _would_ remember, however, was the way in which they had seemed to move in perfect synchronicity; the way their bodies had melded as if they had danced together a thousand times before.

She had arched her back...and felt him pull her to him with such assurance that it had been impossible not to imagine how those firm hands might feel if they had been pulling her still closer….

She had tossed her head to avoid his eyes, the classic posture of a traditional tango; and yet her hair had brushed his face, and Percy was forced to acknowledge that he had been wondering, all evening, how those glorious tendrils might feel in his hands.

They had stepped across the floor in a perfect _caminada_, their feet interweaving in the parry and thrust of _mordida_, as she had moved her legs back and forth between his.

Marguerita raised one leg in the high kick of an _enganche; _then, been startled by the hot current Percy ignited when he ran his hand slowly down her limb before grasping her thigh to lift her high into the air.

They had next sunk together, bending their knees in unison before rising to whirl across the dance floor once more.

He had pulled, and spun, and handled her body until it was impossible for either of them not to imagine the way they might have touched each other if they had been alone.

And finally Percy had tilted Marguerita into a dip as the orchestra played its closing flourish, and brought the dance to an end.

He let her up slowly as the last strains of music faded away.

From the crowd in the restaurant, and the other dancers who had initially surrounded them, Marguerita vaguely heard shouts of applause that were partially for the orchestra, but principally for her and Percy.

But they were noise in her ears.

Her focus was entirely upon Percy.

Was his breathing as labored as hers?

Why were his eyes devouring her that way?

Why did it seem to make her flushed and aching, confused and exhilarated, all at the same time?

His eyes continued to hold hers as he kept his hands on her back, hands that seemed to burn the bare skin exposed by her halter top.

"We should go back to the table," he finally said.

He didn't seem at all enthusiastic about the idea.

"Yes," Marguerita heard herself breathe.

Her legs seemed to move mechanically as they returned to the waiting group.

Marguerita's mind was in tumult, overcome with patchwork memories of the events that had brought her to this moment.

Susana's gentle urging: "_I am not always sure I like him, but he is Andy's best friend, and Andy is convinced you would….how do the Americans say it? "Hit it off?"_

Initially, Marguerita had offered excuses, thinking little of the scheme.

Then, later, she had become more amenable to the idea, eager for a manageable means to repay Andy for his newspaper profile.

_A quick drink, _she'd thought, _with Andy and his friend, and the matter would be over and neatly settled._

And then Armando had gotten wind of the plan, and insisted upon coming along.

And then, inexplicably, Tío Luis had insisted upon coming as well.

And she had not dared to refuse.

Tío Luis, she knew, could be most dangerous when disobliged.

She had not been prepared, however, for the current of awareness that seemed to seize her when she met Percy Blake for the first time.

There was something _there_, she thought.

Something old, something secret.

Something hidden.

It fascinated her. The man fascinated her.

And now she was hopelessly ensnared, in a dangerous web of desire unlike any attraction she'd ever felt toward a man before.

Had Marguerita retained the ability to pay attention as they retook their seats around the restaurant table, she might have noticed her brother's eyes, narrowed, at Percy.

Contreras, who had been watching them both throughout the dance with predatory concentration, followed Marguerita's uncharacteristically awkward movements as she re-seated herself with his eyes, saying nothing.

Ed, Phil, and Tony looked knowingly amused.

Andy looked concerned, and quietly sympathetic.

Despite his teasing, and the light plot he and Susana had hatched to bring the two of them together, it was hard for Andy not to feel a trace of anxiety at the intensity of the connection Marguerita Santa Justa had clearly forged with Percy Blake.

They had hit it off, all right, but this was getting a lot more serious a lot more quickly than even Andy had expected it to.

"Great dance, kids!" Tony boomed, to fill a silence that had eerily begun to seem dangerous. "You guys really tore up the floor!"

"Thanks," Percy responded laconically.

How, Percy thought to himself, could he suddenly desire a woman he'd known only a few hours so badly he could hardly breathe?

Percy began reaching for a cigarette, less because he truly wanted one than because it gave him something to do with his hands.

As for Marguerita, she continued to stare silently at the table top, vainly striving to get a rein on her pulse, which, to her heightened sensibilities, seemed to be thundering load enough for Contreras to hear.

_"Madre de Dios," _Marguerita thought to herself.

What on earth had just happened?

* * *

><p>Additional Notes:<p>

The original Spanish version of Miguel de Unamuno's "Soledad" is given in Miguel de Unamuno, _Obras Completas, Volume VIII: Ensayos _(Madrid, 2007), p. 780. A translation, by J.E.C. Flitch, is given in _Great Essays of All Nations_, ed. F.H. Prichard (London, Harrap, 1929), 516-519. Readers are also invited to look at Martin Nozick, _Miguel de Unamuno _(New York: Twayne Publishers, 1971), esp. p. 87.

I have also referred to the websites of "Tejastango;" "The History of Tango;" and several dance instruction videos available on the internet for background on the history, vocabulary, and techniques of the tango. Readers who are curious about these websites, or who would like to be directed to where Gardel's classic _Por una cabeza _(which has been used in a number of Hollywood films) may be heard are welcome to request references from the author.

Renewed and especial thanks to Slytherinsal, Woodcrafter, Morfiwien Greenleaf, BelfastDocks, and RthStewart for their encouragement and sympathy.


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